


The Unknown - I

by VeryShyViolet



Series: The Unknown (Mads Mikkelsen/Tom Hiddleston) [1]
Category: British Actor RPF, Danish Actor RPF, Mads Mikkelsen - Fandom, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Blood Kink, Bloodplay, Breathplay, Celebrities, Choking, Dominance, Domination, Gay, Gay Male Character, Gay Sex, Kink, Knifeplay, M/M, Mads Mikkelsen - Freeform, Power Play, tom hiddleston - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 09:22:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5243048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeryShyViolet/pseuds/VeryShyViolet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unlikely pair, but heated nonetheless between the sheets.<br/>Accents and knives and choking, oh my.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Unknown - I

**Author's Note:**

> This popped into my head at random with my girlfriend, while trading photos and wordy imagery of some of our favorite actors. Things got hot, to say the least, and I decided to wrap it into something proper.
> 
> Note: For Mads' part in this, I drew heavily from his personality on Hannibal (and an interview I watched on YouTube).
> 
> (Edit) This is a oneshot for now, unless there is popular demand!
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> \- Amethyst

Tom Hiddleston is choking.

Not on words ( _acting a play to **perfection** , complete with a death scene_).

Not on emotion of gratitude ( _a strange man, Danish, approached him afterward with multitudes of praise_ ).

Not on food or drink ( _the man, first name of **Mads** , of great taste and sophistication, **irresistible** , offered him lunch_).

 

But at Mads Mikkelsen's mercy.

 

Tom is whimpering.

Not out of fear ( _he accepted the lunch_ ).

Not out of sadness ( _ **Tom** invited him to his flat for more **unbelievable** intellectual conversation_ ).

 

But at Mads' mercy.

 

He is unable to breathe, and he loves every second of it, as Mads' large hand grips Tom's soft throat, squeezing tighter and tighter until the air cuts off.  
Thomas whimpers laboriously out of arousal, and then can no longer make any sound even if he wanted to, as his windpipe closes with centimetres of space left.

Mads smiles, gritting his teeth.

Tom can't breathe, but he wants _more._

Mads grips Tom between his legs, grasping him with a fist at his crotch as he continues to choke him, a strangled noise coming from his closed throat that's a mix of pain and pleasure.

And Tom's lips start to turn blue, but Mads knows the limits of the human body too well, that he has a few delicious seconds more.

Veins rise against the surface of the flesh, straining --

At last, he finally relinquishes Tom's pale throat, beautiful, hot red handprint marring his skin and deepening in color with every second. Tom wheezes, sweat beading on his face and neck, and Mads tortures him further, squeezing him hard between his legs, through his trousers. Tom cries out hoarsely, coughing and trembling and whimpering evermore.

He half-sits up in reflex, but does not stop Mr. Mikkelsen, merely keeping his legs limp and spread for the older man to do as he pleases.

Mads squeezes the bunch of Tom's sensitive flesh in his one fist harder, eliciting another, hoarser cry from Tom - and the ginger's hand instinctually reaches for his groin, heavily shuddering in, again, pain and delectable pleasure.

Mads swiftly tuts, "Ah, ah." 

Thomas stops in his tracks, especially as he hears a flick and a metallic click. There's a glint in the dim bedroom, in the space between them, as a shaft of light from the curtained window catches the polished steel of a switchblade that's gently held toward Tom's flesh. Tom slowly lies back down, chest heaving as adrenaline courses through his body. He shudders through his nose, a drip of sweat wetting the flat of the switchblade as it is pointed tip-first at his throat, liquid again gathering at the point of the ginger's chin.

Mads smiles crookedly, and sweat is starting to softly bead upon his chiseled cheeks and barely-week-old salt n' pepper stubble. The tension is high and sharp between the two sophisticated men.

He drags the very, very tip of the blade feather-soft down Tom's throat, over and down the curves of his Adam's apple, and pausing at the soft hollow a few inches below it. He genuinely smiles at this, watching the other man, shakily freeze, aware that bodily tremor could shift the supremely sharp knife upon his flesh, and that any degree of movement would graciously part his skin and yield to the air his crimson fluids.

Tom is frozen like a statue.

And Mads gently, expertly presses the blade forward a slim fraction of an inch, as he pulls it slowly downward at the same time. He has never felt so damn excited before, and it feels just as good as rich, wonderful release to see the other man's blood well up at his will, in small, red, sweet droplets.

Mads takes his other hand, and presses his thumb along the slim, paper-thin cut, smearing the warm drops flat along the slit. He can't keep back a smile, further spreading Tom's blood along his little hollow and just below it. Tom has his head thrown back, lips parted; his jaw twitches as the manipulation of his cut stings, and his mouth is that much more tantalizing.

Mads can't resist and takes his bloody thumb and presses it against the other man's mouth, pressing down and parting his lips more as he pushes the bottom lip down in an unmistakably dominant fashion. They are both trembling now.

Tom tastes something metallic, and his eyes flutter shut as he gives himself over, letting Mads take his own lifeblood and do with it what he pleases. He opens his mouth, and takes the other man's thumb in, sucking with a very faint sound of pleasure.

Mads has to grit his teeth for the second time, biting back his own sounds of relish for this heated moment.  
"I was thorougly enchanted by your death onstage, by your own 'blood' rushing out of your slit throat," he whispers. "My primal self immediately took to wondering about your little death, _la petite mort_ , with blood rushing... elsewhere. Forgive me."

Tom chuckles, that unmistakable chuckle vibrating Mads' thumb as he opens his mouth to speak. Mads smiles leniently, replacing his digit upon Thomas' chin. The man speaks. "You're forgiven, quite honestly. I never in my wildest dreams thought that I'd do this. And, I'm not sure what repercussions it'll have..." Tom says, nodding his head toward the covered window.

Mads still smiles, eyes fixated upon the cut he made on the other man, how it moves and parts and shines in the light. He is intoxicated by his own fascination. He answers slowly.

"The press won't think anything; we were seen having lunch and talking, then walking about NYC with your remnants of the play script and paraphernalia; they'll surmise about us working together and that's it. On the other side, your 'fangirls' - and mine - will write many theories but journalists will think nothing of it - as they always have."

Tom chuckles again, this time embarrassedly. "The fangirls. Well, this time what they might write is true." he clears his throat, the apex of his cheekbones reddening.

Mads tilts his head. "Yes, but they never have to know. Don't worry, Tom..." he begins. He gently reconnects the translucent buttons of Tom's button-down shirt that had been so hastily undone before, grabbing and pulling and touching and feeling, while power-play was instantly involved with a dominant hand and mouth, and submissive flesh being bodily pushed into the softness of bed. "...I'm discrete." Mads finishes, feeling the heat of the new memory still burning hormonally in his head, both upstairs and downstairs. "I suppose we'll have to establish some kind of understanding now, eh?" he pats the younger man's healthy chest, and it's still a bit boxy-sounding with adrenaline.

"An understanding, yes. Maybe a, ah, 'safe word' or two, as well." Tom says. Mads nods, swiping a finger across the side of the other man's neck, slick and shiny with sweat. "As pleasant as it is without one, it's much--" "Safer." they finish the sentence together.

"You like the unknown," Mads says, after a short silence, Tom lost in thought as Mads enjoys the sight of him.

"Maybe." the pensive man replies, his head turned toward the window.

"We were unknown to each other before this, so I'm going to say yes." Mads says, using the flat of his switchblade to move Tom's face to gaze at him again. Tom intuits from Mads' expression, and holds perfectly still.  
A long, thin cut is inflicted effortlessly, tucked under Tom's jawline. Blood slowly wells forth, and Mads makes sure to catch it with the blade, lifting it closer to look. Tom looks beautifully undone, rumpled and ruffled and sweaty and _captivating_. It's a flashback to the haphazard tumble and splayed limbs as he bled out onstage.

Mads chuckles, and thumbs the spill of blood on the metal, and then pushes his thumb across Tom's chin and jaw, marking him. Tom's body practically resonates with his breathy arousal. Mads licks the blade, spreading the blood across his tongue and lips, and leans down fluidly, holding the knife out of the way. Mads' hand grips Tom's shirt, pulling the other man into him.

Their lips meet gently for the first time, then crush into each other heatedly, tasting of salt and metal and warmth - and thusly marking their foray into each other.


End file.
